


My Head Is An Animal

by seastarved



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark Emma Swan, Dark Swan Arc, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4675538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seastarved/pseuds/seastarved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a war under her skin, marks littered upon the battlefield of her body. There is a crack in his heart, where he has lost once more. When a monster lives in your heart, when you have lost the woman you love, can you find a way back to one another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Head Is An Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much just a version of Season 5A written way before we had any spoilers so effectively spoiler free! :)
> 
> Accompanying graphic can be found here: tmblr.co/ZVRwvr1nu96yD

When the darkness comes it is not an oppressive, all consuming call to hate. It is not a rush of power or a draining of all emotion. It is not a burning in her veins or an ache in her head.

It is like light.

It is like a warm blanket lulling her to sleep, like a deep voice calling her name. It pulls her under. The tumultuous storm of her emotions dims into a mild churning in her stomach. The images of her family, their faces twisted into horror and despair slowly fade until they look like a blurred mix of colours. The darkness gently tightens its hold, pulls her deeper and deeper but it does not hurt her.

At first, she struggles, trying to fight it off. She tries to keep herself alert, awake. She tries to keep herself from being coaxed into this false tranquility. But, soon the fraying ends of her magic give in and she is swallowed by it all.

The last thing she hears is her mother’s choked sob.

She wakes in a room filled with books. The world looks hazy at first, like in a dream but as she comes to her senses, she feels it. She is drowning in the power, the strength of it coursing through her veins. She feels the magic pounding in her blood. It obeys her implicitly, her every thought made reality, her every whim yielded to. The feeling is heady, intoxicating, and she lets it command her. The doors lock shut, the walls around the building grow higher. Standing steadily, she walks over to one of the books, idly raising her hand to flip through it.

Her heart feels almost as empty as the pages.

* * *

The first thing he feels when the noise and the wind stop, when she is gone, is anger.

It burns through him like a roaring flame. His fist clenches, his jaw is tight and his eyes burn.

Anger at the dagger, at the circumstances, at the crocodile, at the bloody sorcerer, at every cursed thing in this world and all the others that had taken her away from him.

Anger at her.

She had just–

He tries to remember the last time that someone had said those words to him and looked at him the way that she had, like he was precious, like he would be missed. Like he was loved. She had said the words that he had been longing to hear for what feels like a lifetime. She had tilted his world on its axis, shifted it in such a fundamental way and then, she had left.

He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath and tries to gather himself, tries to keep the anger alive because he knows that once it dissipates, all that will remain will be the pain.

He hears whispered conversation and footsteps. A hand pausing briefly on his shoulder before moving on. His eyes open then, and David is standing before him, the dagger in his extended hands.  

His gaze lands on her name carved across the front of it, declaring her sacrifice like it was some kind of prize.

He looks up to meet David’s eyes and he sees understanding there, sadness and love and beneath it all, a glimmer of determination.

“Take it.”

His hand moves as if on its own and grabs hold of the hilt. It is cold.

He wonders if she is cold.

The anger is slowly passing and exhaustion is taking its place. He tucks the dagger into his jacket, nods at David once and turns to leave.

Despite the fact that these are people that he has come to respect and trust, he does not know how to be with them right now. Not without her. He does not want to hear speeches about hope. He does not want to make plans.

He does not want to share his grief.

So he leaves.

Later, he sits by the water, the dagger clutched tight in his hand, its edges glinting in the light of the street lamp above him. He had sat in his room on the Jolly and given into the feelings that had been clawing to get out of him since she had vanished. He had allowed himself to throw and shatter and curse. He had allowed himself to cry.

But now, all that remains is a desperate sort of determination.

He will get her back.

After all, he had spent three hundred years chasing the dark one.

Who could do it better?

* * *

The pain returns only when she falls asleep.

During the day, she feels as if every nerve in her body, every emotion in her heart has been turned off. She feels nothing except the intense buzzing of the magic reigning chaos inside of her.  

She stands framed by the large window of the room she has chosen to be the place where she sleeps. The bed is rumpled, covers thrown off. She often wakes this way, her heart beating fast, her mouth open on the verge of a scream as she pushes the blankets off of her in a rush to escape the nightmare. But the second she regains control, it stops. Everything stops.

(The dark one will not be  _weak_.)

Curtains float about her gently with the breeze as she watches the birds fall with every flick of her finger. They hurtle to the ground as every muscle in their tiny bodies seizes at once. She does this almost lazily, with a careless disregard for the creatures’ lives. She observes herself as a pigeon falls, its wings frozen in mid-flight. Disgust, fear, sadness, shame. Feelings that would have once rushed through her at this display of cruelty are dulled, forced down by the heady intoxication of the magic.

She forces a bird to fly towards her, it’s movements jerky as it tries to resist. It lands on the lip of the window and Emma strokes its head with her index finger.

Its eyes are wide, afraid and it is the look frozen on its face as it too falls backwards.

She takes a vindictive, cruel joy in taking this fundamental power away from something. She commands their very bones, their tiny beating hearts. She could stop them with a flick of her wrist or a flash of her eyes. She takes joy in the  _control_.

The magic flares when she thinks of the people who had dared to dictate her destiny. The ever-revolving door of foster parents, authors and villains and demons.

But, no more.

She takes one last look at the tiny bodies littering her lawn and goes back inside, the window slamming shut behind her.

(That night, her dreams are filled with strangled screams and the soft thudding noise of bodies hitting the grass.)

* * *

It has been three days since she had disappeared.  

They’ve all been working at ways to bring her back. Spells and books and maps. Days spent in the library, nights at Granny’s catching up on progress. They work in a fevered sort of frenzy. Henry running up and down the street between the loft and Regina’s house and the library. Her parents acting like the leaders that they are expected to be. Regina and Robin working at spells to temporarily dull the effects of the dagger.  

But, he sees past the fierce determination, past the singular sense of purpose. He sees how they are all barely holding it together. He sees how Snow hasn’t moved  _her_  jacket from the arm of the couch where she had left it after she had picked that white sweater instead. He sees how Henry keeps almost calling her on his talking phone and then putting it away when it is halfway up to his ear. He sees how David keeps reaching for that picture of her in the pink dress, bright and glowing and  _happy_.

(He still cannot believe that they’d had that night, that he had been allowed to see her smile, that they’d had all the days after. He still cannot believe that she lo–)

And there is him.

He tries to be as helpful as he can, spending hours with Belle at the Library.

(Belle, who is the only person besides himself who has known the Dark One. She has known the nature of his cruelty, the nature of the magic that rules him. She sits with him trying to find a hint of a story, a lost passage, a half erased name. Anything to help them get to Merlin.)

He helps David and Snow organise and regroup at the end of the day. He stands beside Henry trying to soothe and anchor and encourage. He is there for them in whatever way they need. He helps them search and study and puzzle.

But, he never talks about her. He never says her name.

(Perhaps he is fooling himself in thinking that they don’t see through him too.)

They never talk about summoning her. Henry did once. He had come to him that first morning when he had stayed by the water all night, his neck and body stiff from sleeping on the hard bench, his hand still clutching the dagger. Henry had walked up behind him and it had taken but a low calling of his name to wake him up. He had stumbled into a sitting position, the boy moving to sit beside him.

He had asked then, his eyes fixed on the words carved into the enchanted steel. He doesn’t think that he has ever heard him sound so unsure. He is her boy after all, filled with every bit of the fire and will that sparkles in his mother’s eyes. But that day, he had stuttered a little, his sentences all ending in questions.

Killian hadn’t replied for a bit, considering the request. They could summon her, yes. Right now in fact and she would be forced to obey. But he isn’t sure if he wants to call upon her that way, encroach upon her will like that.

He hadn’t quite said so to the boy, all the words seemingly stuck in his throat as he had tried to explain that his mother was the best thing that had ever happened in his twice accursed life, that he would do anything to get her back but he wasn’t sure he was ready to do  _this_.

(He had felt like the coward he had been in his other life.)

But, Henry had understood. As perceptive as they come, he had made sense of his incoherence and put his hand on his hook to get him to stop talking.

“We’ll save her though won’t we?”

He had sounded so small then, that Killian hadn’t been able to stop himself from putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulling him closer. He had stiffened at first, just a little but then allowed himself to be pulled in.

“Yes, lad. We will. We’re heroes aren’t we?”

Henry had smiled then, a crooked grin that had reminded him starkly of another boy, another family, another lifetime.

(Gods but he has lived centuries without her and it had never felt like this. She has taken over his heart, carved out a place for herself in it and filled it with gentle kisses and whispered secrets; with the feel of her fingers in his hair, her lips chasing his; with the promise of love and family. And now that she is gone, that space is empty and it  _aches._  All the time. Every hour, everyday.)

“Yeah, we’re heroes.”

Henry had stood up abruptly then and begun to speak rapidly, pacing in front of him, his energy and determination back in a flash. He had begun to plan and organise, unwilling now to give up hope.

And watching him, Killian had almost started believing the words that he had said to him.

But that seems like an age ago. The determination has faded slowly into fatigue but they keep at it. No matter that every lead is a dead end, every spell backfiring. No matter that every night ends with him sitting in his bunk, alone with the weapon that was her undoing as he traces the ridges and valleys of her name. No matter that every night he almost calls upon her and stops himself at the very last moment.

No matter.

They are heroes.

(But, sometimes it is hard to believe that they can beat this.)

* * *

She is lying on her back on the floor of the library in the Sorcerer’s mansion. Blank pages from the storybooks fly above her in lazy patterns as she tries to calm herself. The nightmares had been particularly bad last night and her mind still echoes with the sound of Henry’s screams and Killian’s soft grunts of pain. ****

She stares up at her extended arm, her finger making nonsense patterns in the air. The blank pages from the books follow her gestures, swooping up and down and around one another. It has been eight days since she had let the darkness take her, let it change her. It has been eight days since she has looked in a mirror.

When she had woken up in this room the first time, her gaze had automatically found the large mirror hung on the wall above a small desk. She had wondered if the dagger had changed her the same way that it had Rumplestiltskin before her, if she had grown scales or thorns. Some kind of physical manifestation of the monster that now lives inside her. But, what she had seen had made all the air rush out of her lungs in a gasp and immediately, a glamour had come down around her, making her skin smooth again, making her hair lush and golden once more.

She hadn’t let herself look in a mirror since.

For a moment, she lets the glamour drop. There is a faint shimmer as it falls away and then she changes. Her arm is suddenly mapped with a thousand veins, a deep reddish colour, like the darkness had dissolved in her very blood. She had seen these raised lines all over herself that first night. They span her entire body marking her with the taint. There are scars too. They aren’t as noticeable as the veins are, changing her in only some places. Her back, two long diagonal slashes extending from her shoulders to the center, like shadows of her imaginary wings. Her wrist, a straight line right where Graham’s shoelace used to live. Her heart, a small crack right in the center of her chest. They seem to mark her in all the places that remind her that all this world has ever done is broken her and hurt her again and again.

In her dreams, she hurts the world back.

Her mother burns. Her son falls asleep and never wakes up. Her father’s eyes are wide and afraid as he falls into a chasm. A deep red colour blooms on her lover’s chest, the bloody end of a sword sticking out of his stomach.

She is the one who does it. She is the one who lights the match, who brews the poison, who pushes with her magic, who plunges the sword.

She is the one who does it but that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that she enjoys it.

She enjoys watching Snow’s body get slowly engulfed by flame, Henry’s slow fall to the floor, David’s arm reaching out towards her, Killian’s last whisper of her name before he stops breathing. It fills her with a cruel kind of glee, a relief that she will no longer be tied to these people.

That she will finally be  _free._

The magic takes longer than usual to turn it off. It is another minute before it works, and just like that, it’s all gone; the only thing that remains is a dull ache in her belly. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply.

It has been eight days since she has let herself think about them while she was awake.

* * *

It takes him eight days to finally break down and call upon her.

It happens after a particularly frustrating day when Regina had almost found them a solution, almost convinced them that the darkness could be contained. Almost.

The spell had failed; unable to suppress even the tiniest ball of flame that Regina had thrown its way.

Even Henry– with his perpetual enthusiasm and endless patience– had looked ready to surrender then, his shoulders slumping, the smile fading from his face.

They had pressed on though, moving forward. The king and queen’s quiet encouragement guiding them. More hours in the library with Belle, chasing legends of dark spirits. More hours spent puzzling over containment spells.  

But, they had ended the day in defeat, having moved no further than the previous day. Snow, David and Henry had sat with him around a table at Granny’s. For the first time, there had been no conversation, no quiet discussions about plans for the next day, no optimistic speeches. All he could hear were the quiet clinks of cutlery against plates. They were all trying keep themselves from shattering their poorly constructed facades because they knew; if one of them was to break the others would soon follow.

And that was when he had turned to his drink. For the first time since she had gone, he had felt hopeless.

Now he sits at his desk, the dagger laid flat before him and considers calling her.

He doesn’t know if it is the rum or the sheer impossibility of their task but he is overcome by a want, a need, to just hold her. He feels the ache in his belly, a pulling sensation that makes it feel like his heart is being squeezed, like his lungs have forgotten to breathe. He needs her to put her arms around him. He needs to hear her voice saying his name. (Gods know, he has called her phone a thousand times just to hear it.)

He needs to  _know_  that she is alright.

Another drag from his flask and as the burning of the drink passes through his throat he says it.

“Dark One, I summon thee.”

(He half expects to hear the Crocodile’s unnatural giggle, to see his scaly skin. He half hopes that none of this is real.)

There is a soft popping sound and just like that, as easy as snapping his fingers, there she stands. She appears on the other side of his desk, looking the same as she had done all that time ago and it is like seeing a ghost. She wears the same white sweater, her hair the same lustrous gold. She stands there frozen, disoriented perhaps as his chair rattles to the ground when he stumbles into standing.

“Emma— “

Her name escapes his lips on a broken breath, spoken out loud for the first time in eight days. Her eyes dart up to his and that is when he sees the change. There is no feeling there. No fire, no heat. No life. He begins to walk towards her slowly, as though trying not to scare a small animal. He walks closer and with every step, his vision blurs more and the aching pull in his belly intensifies. She is so close; he can smell the scent of her hair now, still the same as before. A gentle hint of something vaguely floral. His entire body buzzes with the need to hold her close, to kiss her hair, to tell her that everything would be alright.

(To have her tell him again that she loves him.)

(To tell her again and again and again that he loves her, that he cannot fathom another second without her, that he needs her to stay.)

She stares straight at him and he can see the conflict in her eyes, her body. She flickers between standing straight and proud, her empty eyes staring right at him to her shoulders lowered, her eyes shining with tears. He walks closer to her in a daze, his eyes taking her in, flitting up and down her body but going back again and again to her eyes. As soon as he is close enough to touch her, his fingers gently graze the skin of her cheek. She closes her eyes then, and sighs deeply, swaying into his touch as though it was cold relief on a hot day. He feels much the same, his hand now fully cupping her face as he finally feels the knot in his stomach loosen a bit.

“Emma, my love—“

His voice is a harsh rasp as he tries to make it work. But, before he can finish his sentence, her eyes dart open and she takes quick steps backwards.

“Emma—”

(Now that she is here, it seems like the only thing he is capable of is saying her name.)

“Killian, no. I have to— I have to go.“

Her voice is shaky as she speaks, afraid. He takes one step closer.

“Why— Emma, please. We can fight this.”

“No, we can’t. Killian, I’m not who I used to be.“

She walks further away from him until she hits the wall of the cabin. Every bit of space she puts between them feels like air leaving his chest.

“It doesn’t matter to me, love,” another step, "We can beat this. Together.”

“It  _should_  matter to you.“

Her voice has slowly been getting calmer and more even as she has been speaking, her eyes emptier.

“Why?”

He hears the pleading note in his own voice. He’s begging to understand because she is here and she is alright and  _they could beat this, damn it._

_(They are heroes.)_

“Because right now, all I want to do is see you bleed.“

He stops at that, his eyes searching hers for a trace of a lie, for deceit. She wants to protect him, doesn’t she?

She  _loves_ —  

“This isn’t you, Emma. It’s the bloody Dark One talking.”

“No Killian, it  _is_  me and I’m not sure how much longer I can control myself.“

He looks for the lie again. He doesn’t find it. She is speaking the truth and it hurts more than he had expected. There is only the chill about her, nothing human left as she stares at him like he is an animal, like he is prey. He begins to speak again, to beg her to stay perhaps but before he can find out, her face flickers to regret for just a second.

“Don’t call me again.”

And just like that she is gone.

(He swears he hears an apology whispered into the air before she leaves.)

(But, then again, he doesn’t remember much of the rest of the night.)

(All he remembers is the burn of the rum down his throat and way his chambers still smelled of her long after she had gone.)

* * *

She begins to lose time.

One minute she is in one place and in what feels like a blink, she is somewhere else, hours having passed without her knowledge. She is standing by the window in her bedroom and then just like that, she is almost out the gates, trying to go past the high walls of the house. Her heart stutters when she realises where she is and what she was about to do. She transports herself back inside immediately and locks herself in.

The darkness has burrowed so deep into her mind that she has begun to lose herself completely.

And this scares her more than anything has yet.

It happens when she is asleep, when she is just waking up, when she is in the hazy in-between so she stops. She stops sleeping, preferring instead to lie in the garden and stare up at the constellations, finding them and mapping them out one by one just like Killian had taught her.

(It seems so long ago now. His arms warm around her as she leans her back against his chest, his voice deep and low in her ear as he takes her hand in his and shows her the stars.)

The magic could dull every feeling in her heart, could make her want to hurt the people she loves, could hurt her in every way it wanted but it would  _not_  do this. She would not let it control her this completely. No matter how seductive the notion is to let go, to let the power enter her heart, to let it consume her.

But, it is only so long that she can stay awake, only so long that she can resist. She wonders what would happen if she surrenders to the pull. She wonders what she would do.

But, before she can consider it, her eyes flutter shut.

(And that is her first mistake.)

When she wakes, she is at the Storybrooke cemetery, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

“No, no, no.”

* * *

The second time he sees her, he thinks he is dreaming. Or perhaps it is a nightmare; he can’t seem to tell anymore.

He’s taken to wandering the streets at night because when he sleeps, all he sees are visions of green and gold. The feel of her skin, the rush of her lips. So, he stays awake instead. He sits by the water, where the lad joins him sometimes. He’s quieter now, the strain of it all getting to him. Killian tries to ease his pain a little, talks to him about hope and heroes and fighting.

(He tries to talk himself into believing the words he is saying.)

But when Henry goes home, he begins to walk. He walks for as long as he can manage without collapsing from exhaustion.

He sees her hair first. It peeks out from behind a gravestone, shining in the moonlight as if glowing from within. He walks closer then, holding his breath, afraid that as soon as he gets close, she will vanish. Just another apparition to torment him.  

She sits there with a bottle in her hand, taking a deep drag just as he comes around to face her. She doesn’t notice him at first, staring up at the sky in a daze, her eyes seemingly fixed on a single spot. He kneels beside her and that’s when she looks at him, an almost smile on her face, a tiny turning up at the corners of her mouth, like she is happy to see him. But, her eyes. They aren’t as empty as they were the last time he saw her but filled instead with a deep sadness and all he wants in that moment is to be able to take it away from her, to shoulder this burden she’s taken on.

(To say the words.)

“Do you know how difficult it is to get drunk when you’re the Dark One?”

Her voice is steady even though most of the fairly large bottle is empty. She follows his gaze when he looks at it, raising it higher before continuing.

“Rum! It tastes like you, you know, just a  _tiny_  little bit,” her smile grows, but it is a poor mockery of the real thing.

Her eyes give her away. His heart twists in his chest, as if constricting his breathing and before he can form a response, she continues.

This,” she shakes the bottle for emphasis, the liquid inside sloshing against its sides, “is my third bottle, can you believe it? And do I feel anything?”

She stands up then and extends both her arms at her sides.

“Nothing!”

She takes another deep drag.

“Well, maybe a little.”

“Emma– ”

His words desert him again and he hates himself for it, for not being able to say the words she needs to hear, for being so helpless, so useless, so unequipped to handle this. He’s been down this road before, in the dark and the cold. He has known it intimately. Three hundred years is a long, long time. But, even then, it had been a self-destructive kind of falling. He had broken everything in his path in the hopes that either he would get what he wanted or he would break himself in the process.

It hadn’t been like this.

“I woke up here actually. Don’t know how I got here. Not a clue.”

She begins to walk away from him then, making a small circle around the graveyard, her hand brushing the tops of the stones as she goes.

“But when I woke up, I remembered my dream. I remembered– ”

She stops to take another swig of rum, the bottle almost completely empty now.

“I really want to hurt you guys, you know? I want to see you bleed. This town, my parents, Henry, all of you.”

Her voice is unwavering, matter-of-fact as she begins counting on her fingers, her eyes fixed on her hand.

“My parents left me on the side of the road. Henry was the worst thing that ever happened to me. And you. You, with your patience and your love and your lies. All of you. You’re the reason I’m here. You’re the reason that this happened to me!”

Her voice rises towards the end until she is shouting at him. He tries to move closer but before he can take a step, there is a shimmer in the air and she changes.

The version of her that he had been seeing for this long had just been an illusion, something to hide the effects of the darkness on her body.

His surprise must show on his face because she smiles again, a cold thing, cruel.

“Still think we can beat this?“

* * *

She lets the rage take over.

It is better than the panic and the fear clawing at her insides. It is better than the hurt.

(She knows that this is what the darkness wants, for her to surrender to this anger but she is so  _tired_  and she hasn’t seen his face in so long and he’s looking at her like he—)

“Aye.”

Startled by the sincerity, the conviction in his voice, she suddenly doesn’t know what to say. He says it like before, like when he would tell her he loved her. Never in so many words, but he would say it all the same.

( _You traded your ship for me?_ )

( _Aye._ )

“Since we’ve met Emma, we’ve beaten giants and demons, witches and curses,” he starts to get closer, one step at a time, “and we’ve won every time. Darling, I have crossed realms and oceans and time to find you.“

He stands right in front of her now, his voice but a whisper in the darkness.

“Do you think this,” his thumb slowly traces one of the lines marking her face, “is going to keep me from you?”

He smiles then and for the first time since all this began, she does too. For a second she begins to believe that she can fight this, that they can win but then it all comes back.

_“Mom no! What are you doing? You’re supposed to be the Saviour!“_

She squeezes her eyes shut to make the voices stop and steps away from his touch, feeling the loss immediately. It’s like a punch in the gut and she just wants it to  _stop_.

(She is so  _tired_.)

A deep, shuddering breath and she opens her eyes.

“Killian— You have to leave now. We can’t— ”

“Emma, please let me help you, “ he gestures with his hook, a wide sweeping motion, “You have a family and they love you.  _Please_ , let us help you.“

Her vision begins to blur, tears slipping down her cheeks as she resists the pull of the magic. It tries to shut it all down, bring the anger back but the sound of his voice, the shadow of his touch gives her strength.

“I can’t. Killian, I don’t know how I got here. The darkness, it takes control and I don’t—“ another broken breath as she tries to keep her voice steady, “I dreamt that I came into town and—you and my parents and  _Henry_.”

She tells him then, of how she had dreamt of walking out of the mansion, finding her family. The blood, the pain—that  _she_  had inflicted on them. The screams for her to come back to them, the pleas for mercy. The way that she had watched them coldly as she snuffed out the light in their eyes.

The way that she had buried them all in this graveyard with her own hands.

And the way that it had all felt  _right._

“And when I woke up here,” sobbing freely by now, her breath hitches with every other word, “I thought that I’d done it!“

She looks up at him then, having avoided his eyes the entire time that she had told her tale, ashamed, afraid of what she would see there.

“Love— ”

His hand extends to touch her again, to wipe away her tears perhaps. Oh, how she craves it, for the rough pads of his fingers to push away the hurt but she can’t.  

She shakes her head and takes another step back.

“I checked every stone here for your names and when I couldn’t find them—“, another long breath, “—I can’t control this. I can’t control myself and I don’t want any of you near me if I ever lose it completely, do you understand?“

He nods dumbly, his face twisted in desperation. It is getting harder to fight the magic. It pounds behind her eyes as she begins to feel the apathy descend again, the rage slowly creeping in.

She needs to  _leave._

“Is Henry alright? My parents?”

“As well as they can be, love. Emma, “ he moves closer “they miss you so much. I— “

She shakes her head again to stop him.

“Tell them I love them ok? Tell Henry, I’m sorry. And my parents. And you, Killian I— ”

And before the darkness can take control again, she is gone.

* * *

“Are you certain?“

“I am! I just didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want you to get your hopes up in case I failed. But, I haven’t and I’m  _sure.”_

Ariel’s voice is fervent, fast as she explains to the room how she had found a way to Camelot, a way to the wizard Merlin. The only man who could find a way to save Emma.

He tries to staunch the surge of hope in his chest when he hears her explain how she had found Ursula and how she had agreed to open a portal for them. He tries, but he fails. There was a way now. A direction and he straightens, finally shrugging off the helplessness of the last few days.

He had told them all about seeing Emma at the graveyard. Snow and David had started asking questions as soon as he had started talking. ( _Did she look okay? Is she alright? Why didn’t you call us?_ ) Keeping most of the details to himself, he had told them the bare bones of what had happened. That the darkness was controlling her, that it was taking over her body and mind, that they had to work faster than ever.

Henry had come to him later to sit by the water. Neither of them had known what to say, choosing instead to just sit silently, watching the waves move in their rhythmic dance. Killian had hoped that his company was somehow enough to soothe the lad. His hair ruffled by the breeze, his eyes straight ahead, Henry had looked so young, too young to be going through this.

But now, his shoulders rise, his eyes light up and when Killian meets them, there is an answering glimmer of hope in his own as well.

“We best get ready. We have quite a ways to go. Shall I go fetch Emma then?“

Suddenly, the room fills with the noise of discordant voices. Arguments for and against taking the Dark One along on a mission to rescue said Dark One fly back and forth. Regina is against the idea, preferring instead to leave someone here to watch Emma and coming back for her later. Snow and David are conflicted between wanting to see their daughter again and wanting to make sure she is safe. Henry supports getting his mother on the ship and presents the line of reasoning that finally decides the matter.

“Look, the Dark One can’t travel through realms on their own and what if we get what we need to fix this in Camelot but we have to wait to get back here to find Mom? What if she leaves town? She needs to come with us.”

He begins to make his way to the Sorcerer’s mansion, choosing to physically visit her instead of summoning her, trying to keep the hope in his heart alive. This was it.

They were going to get her back.

( _They were heroes._ )

* * *

She sees him approaching the gate. She hears him calling her name.

But, she doesn’t respond. Can’t respond.

Ever since that night in the cemetery, things have been getting worse. She loses even more time and keeping herself from accidentally blasting the doors off the mansion in her sleep is becoming a herculean task.

She watches them now, her family. After accidentally stumbling upon a crystal ball in her exploration of the house, she realises that she can see them if she thinks about them hard enough. Watching them makes the darkness retreat just a touch. She watches them do simple things. Daily, domestic things. They’ve begun to adjust to her absence and even though it stings (makes the darkness surge in rage), she is glad that they are doing so. That they’re moving on.

That is where she watches Killian from now. Her fingers caress the rounded surface as he calls her name again and again, his voice echoing in the hidden library.

“Emma! Please open the door!”

It seems like it always comes down to this. Her behind her walls and Killian Jones standing outside, waiting to knock them down.

But, this time she can’t let him. For if she does, he might not live long enough to come out the other side.

‘Emma! We have a way to get to Merlin! Please! Open the gate!“

She perks up at that. Could he be telling the truth? The magic inside her flares up in protest even as she feels a wild rush of hope. She’s overcome by the urge to hurl him far, far away from her door and to open it at the same time.

"Love, please.”

His voice is weaker now as she continues to fight the battle inside of her. He leans against the wall to the side of her gate and sighs, almost visibly deflating, a stray lock of his hair falling on his forehead when his head hits the wall. He closes his eyes and slowly pulls the dagger out from beneath his jacket.

He stares at it for a little bit, as if he is tracing every curve of her name with his eyes, reconciling himself with the fact that the name on the dagger was the Dark One, not the woman he is in–

“I’m sorry, darling.”

It is but a whisper but she hears it as clear as a bell in her empty room full of empty books. She hears the apology, the regret in his voice that he has to call upon her this way again. But, beneath that, she hears the tiny bit of hope. His mouth turns up at the corners so soft that she almost misses it.

“We’re going to save you, Emma.”

She opens the doors.

* * *

He stands on the deck of the Jolly, his eyes fixed on the stars as they’re reflected in the water. It is a quiet night, the water almost completely still, the breeze gentle as it caresses his face.

They had started their voyage this morning, Emma joining them. He had seen her fight the darkness; fight her own fear of hurting them to allow herself to be exposed in this way.

( _It’s the only way, Emma._ )

( _I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t—_ )

( _You won’t hurt us, I promise. Regina will be with us, her magic can contain yours and I—_ )

( _Promise you’ll end it— me, if something goes wrong._

 _(Promise me, Killian._ )

( _Aye.)_

She had agreed and here they were.

It had been a charged encounter when she had first climbed up the gangplank, her glamour back in place but unable to hide the deadness in her eyes. Henry had almost run to hug her as soon as he had spotted her but Regina’s staying hand on his shoulder had stopped his movements and made the beginnings of a smile drop away from Emma’s face. After that, she hadn’t looked at them. Speaking only to him in small murmurs, she had completely ignored her parents’ tearful, expectant looks as they stood on deck, hoping to speak to her, hold her,  _something_. Snow had begun to reach out to her, her hand falling away when David gently pulled her back, sensing somehow what Emma needed. She had retreated to her bunk immediately, the one furthest away from everyone else on board and requested him to ask Regina to cast a containment spell on the room, just in case.

She hadn’t come out since.

They’d passed through the portal without incident and thanked Ursula for her kindness. But, once the Jolly had hit water, it had become his work to guide them to the strange land where the wizard lived. The hard physical labour had taken his mind off of the fact that even though she lay but a few meters from where he stood, he could not go to her. He could not touch her. He could not love her.

It had only partially worked.

It is now far too late in the night for him to be awake, and yet he stands on watch while everyone else sleeps, unsure of whether he would be able to keep himself from trying to catch a glimpse of her if he went below deck.

He wonders if she is sleeping well. The thought only just crosses his mind, when he senses the soft scent of her mingling with the air around him.

“Not sleeping well, captain?”

* * *

It had taken all her power to keep herself from leaving her small room in the belly of the ship. Her skin had burned, her veins seemingly on fire as she had sat on the floor, against the wall furthest from the door. Her chin against her bent knees, her arms wrapped around them. Once they had passed through the portal, the pressure had given way a little, allowing her to sleep for an hour.

But as soon as she had woken, it had all come back. The apathy, the anger, the vicious cruelty flowing in her blood.

The knowledge that her prey was now so close.

And so, she had decided to go hunting.

She stands beside him now, feeling the tension rolling off him in waves and it feels  _delicious._  She realises then that even after all this, she still loves him. But, it is different from before. Before, she had wanted to love him soft, tender, she had wanted him to know the most vulnerable parts of her because she knew that he would keep them safe. Now, she is all piercing sharpness and broken edges that cut and now, she wants to  _possess_  him.

He doesn’t answer her question. He had taken one look at her and turned away, known that the magic ruled her tonight.

(Oh, how she wants to break him.)

She runs her thumb up along his jaw, slow and deliberate, ending the journey with her fingers scratching at his scalp.

“Maybe I can help?“

Her voice is husky as she whispers the words into his ear, all heat and desire. She nibbles at his earlobe and feels a rush of triumph when he bites his lip to keep from groaning, his entire body now wound up, coiled like a cat ready to pounce.

“Come on, Killian,” she whines as her hand trails down his arm and grabs hold of his hook, the other pulling his opposite shoulder so he’s facing her.

She runs her fingers over the metal, biting her lip, looking up at him from between her lashes.

“I want to know if you can  _really_  use this hook.”

He takes a sharp inhale as she moves closer to him, moving both her arms around his neck. So close now that she can feel the heat of his breath against her skin. She presses a kiss to his neck, wet and hot, right by where his heart beats a rapid rhythm. His skin tastes of salt and god, she hadn’t realised how much she wants him. Her tongue trails a hot line up to his jaw, ending in a bite pulling at his skin between her teeth.

He moans properly then, the sound is deep and desperate, his hand and hook coming around her waist in a bruising grip. The sharp edge of the metal digs into her skin and the magic inside her soars.

“Emma, we can’t do this.”

He seems to collect himself enough to grunt the words, pushing her infinitesimally backwards, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Why?” She pulls at his hair and kisses his jaw again, sucking at the skin, his stubble scratching her cheeks.

“You can’t kiss me properly, can you? You might lose your power.“

His voice is still strained as he tries to push her backwards again. But it’s a half hearted attempt, his arms pulling her back to his body as if by their own volition.

“Mmm, don’t we think highly of ourselves.”

She lets go of his hair, jerking herself closer still, their bodies now touching from shoulder to knee.

“You know, you don’t have to kiss to be  _intimate,”_  her leg wraps around his at the last word, scratching at the back of his thigh with her boot, pressing her hips against his.

He looks down at her then, his eyes hooded with lust and want, his mouth open just a touch, like he wants to taste her the way she’s been tasting him. But as soon as he meets her eyes, it’s as if the fog that he had been under clears and he pushes her back roughly.

“No! No, Emma, not like this.“

He jerks back from her and begins to walk away. She can see it’s taking a toll on him, pulling himself away from her. He keeps looking back as he walks and all she can do is laugh.

It is a laugh to chill your very bones.

They don’t stand a chance.

* * *

When they finally reach Camelot, they find themselves in the midst of a war.

They get there on a sunny day, the Jolly anchored by a beach with a large castle in clear view, its towers peeking over the tops of the trees that block their path. A man is there to meet them, Ariel having informed the residing royals of their presence and their purpose. They are greeted courteously, provided with horses and then led to the Queen.

Snow and David head the group. Despite the pain and exhaustion clearly etched on their faces, they are leaders still. Regina follows closely behind with Henry at her side. Henry had been the hardest hit by Emma’s behaviour. He keeps stealing unsure glances at her, wondering perhaps if his mother still existed beneath the person that rode behind them now. Killian and Henry had continued their daily ritual, watching the water in the early evening, watching the sunset. He hadn’t spoken much, trying instead to give the boy strength with his presence, his hand on his shoulder in silent support. He prays that it had worked.

Emma rides at the very back of the group, Killian just a ways in front of her. He keeps looking back to watch her ride. She is a vision. Her hair cascading behind her as she commands the horse with ease. Her back is straight, her shoulders high. She looks every bit the royal she was born to be.

When she catches him staring, she smiles at him and it is just like the night before. Hollow and vicious, it sends a shudder through his body and he turns away. Memories assault his senses, the feeling of her standing so close to him, of her touching him after so long had nearly brought him to his knees. He does not know how he had resisted a pliant and willing Emma Swan in his arms. After an age of being away from her, her scent alone had felt like a heady liquor. But, her eyes had betrayed her, the depths of them holding no mischief, no love.

He tries to focus on their mission. The Apprentice’s words ringing in his ears, he hopes that the Queen they are about to meet will have an answer for them.

* * *

She does not. Not without a price at least.

The Lady Guinevere is a sharp woman, shrewd and intelligent, she senses their desperation and uses it to her advantage. She offers them information in exchange for assistance in the war she wages with her estranged husband.

Emma speaks for the first time since they have disembarked.

“I can help.”

* * *

Her blood sings when she fights.

She burns a path for them between the men that guard Arthur’s castle. Her magic surges through her like a hurricane and for the first time, she lets it go. The darkness takes over completely as she moves among the men who look increasingly terrified as word of her spreads through the ranks. Guinevere, Lancelot (that had been quite the interesting meeting) and the rest of her family followed by a smaller force walk behind her, taking care of any stragglers and making their way to the King of Camelot.

(When she had heard that the man was fighting his wife because she had decided that she loved someone else,  _she_  had decided that getting rid of him would be her great pleasure.)

Her glamour drops a few minutes into the fighting. Right after that first kill. Watching the man fall off his horse at a flick of her wrist, his neck snapping off with a satisfying crack, that had been the moment. She had watched his blood stain the ground where he had landed, little rivulets of crimson flowing down hill and she had felt an exhilaration like no other.

And she had let it fall; allowing the world, her family to see what she was truly like.

Blood stains her hands too.

When a man is too stubborn to fall immediately at her command, she takes pleasure in the futile show of resistance. She looks in their eyes as she kills them, her hand deep in their chests, reminding them that she is the one in control. Her horse is hit by an errant arrow and even as it bleeds, she orders it to keep moving, pushes the beast’s injured body into motion.

She is wild and hungry and drunk with her power.

She is not afraid anymore.

* * *

Watching her kill, it is the first time that Killian truly fears her.

She leaves a trail of bodies behind her, blood soiling the ground they walk upon. The group that follows her is as somber as she is gleeful. Snow and David clasping their hands tight as they ride with stiff backs, trying not to let the fear show on their faces. Regina watches with mild admiration mixed with a touch of concern, while she blasts fire to scare away any stragglers or men too stubborn to know that they are beaten. Henry had been left in the custody of the guards at the Queen’s castle and Killian could not be more glad that the lad had agreed to stay behind so easily. He does not know what seeing his mother this way would do to him. The Lady Guinevere and Lancelot lead them, their initial joy at approaching victory slowly fading away into horror as they watch their own subjects being beaten and broken by the woman before them.

They enter Arthur’s castle in a blaze as Emma burns the great doors into ash. The man himself stands at the head of the great hall, aware of the fact that he was beaten, ready to surrender. It is all easier than he had ever expected.

Their foe is shackled and behind bars before the end of the day.  

He hopes for a map with directions if not a direct introduction to the man who could potentially put an end to this and gods know, he is quite ready for this to end.

But later in the evening, the Queen tells them the legend of the wizard Merlin and hands them a stack of books with stories.

He feels the fight slowly bleed out of him.

* * *

He is not sure how many drinks he has had. Perhaps it had been just the one, perhaps it had been twelve.  

But, it feels like he is back again to the nights after he had lost his brother, to the nights after Milah had whispered her last goodbye, to the nights after Emma had left him at the town line.  

He lies in a large, opulent chair. Deep red with gold details and the softest cushions in the realm. It seems at this moment far more uncomfortable than the simple chair in his quarters. His head lolls to the side, his hand and hook draped across the arm rests. As he sits there, sprawled across his seat, he hears them, he sees them again. The ghosts of his past coming to visit. It’s been quite a while since he has had the chance to entertain them. He hears Liam’s booming laugh, feels Milah’s fingers caressing his jaw. But, he sees  _her_. He sees her golden hair, her eyes flashing at him in amusement as she tries not to smile at something he’s said. He feels her kneel next to him and take his hand. He feels her kiss his forehead and whisper to him that things would be alright.

That she forgives him.

He reaches out for her, his hook trying to weave through her hair. Strange, he thinks, how she had turned his deadly weapon into something gentle, tender. Strange, how she had softened his edges, how she had— not changed him, no. She had brought him back to life. She had brought back the man his brother would have been proud of.

He tries to tighten his grip on her hand, to tell her that he has failed her that he is not worthy of her forgiveness. To tell her that he is so tired of being without her.

But, his hand passes though air and just like that she is gone.

(He feels like he has already lost her.)

* * *

She wakes to an incessant, irregular knocking at her door.

Pushing the heavy blankets off of herself, she gets up to open it; ready to bury whoever it was that had dared to wake her this way. She would think that her display earlier in the day would have intimidated even the most seasoned warrior.

But, when she is met with the sight of a disheveled Killian Jones; his hair an untamed mess, falling onto his forehead; his eyes hooded and dazed; the scent of rum coming off him in waves, it fades away. He’s stumbling on his feet, his arms limp at his sides and it is an instinct perhaps, the way she wants to hold him, comfort him. She has never seen him this lost and it scares her. It is a lump in her throat, a burning in her eyes, an ache in her belly. It is her heart feeling like it is about to break in two. It is  _I love you. I love you. I love you._

And it is enough to keep the darkness at bay.

She takes his hand and gently pulls him inside, shutting the door behind him. He comes with her easily, no strength in his grip, no purpose in his step. She sits him down on her bed, his head leaning against the headboard, one hand still in his while the other brushes the hair of his brow in a way that she has been craving for so long now.

He finally seems to notice her.

“Emma?“

His eyes open a little wider as he takes her in, his hand finally closing around hers.

“You’re alright. Are you alright, love?”

His voice is a mumble and she’s not sure he knows what he’s saying.

“I’m fine, Killian.“

She answers him in a whisper, her hand still in his hair, gently running her fingers through the strands. She tries to soothe him as he continues to speak, his words slowly devolving into incoherence. She keeps talking to him, whispering to him that she is okay, that he will be fine, that everything would be fine.

(Empty promises all.)

She tells him that he hadn’t failed. She tells him again and again that he hasn’t lost her, not yet.

She tells him that she will fight for them.

Her voice shakes with every word, her fingers starting to tremble on his forehead when he doesn’t seem to be getting any better.

“Please don’t leave me,” his hand suddenly tightens around hers, pulling it closer to press a sloppy kiss to her knuckles, “I need you.”

Her vision blurs and she bends to kiss his forehead, the scar on his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Her lips hover above his for a second, burning with sensation. She craves their softness; she wants to feel the fire he kindles in her belly, the warmth she feels in her heart, the feeling of safety, of love.  

But, she closes her eyes, kissing just below his mouth instead. He sighs, his body relaxing into the bed more and more with every kiss.

She can’t bring herself to leave him after feeling his skin against hers, feeling his hair between her fingers. She feels anchored,  _home_  with him but she knows that she has pushed her luck; the darkness already beginning to claw it’s way back.

“I love you, Killian.“

(His pillow is still stained with tears when she leaves.)

* * *

He wakes surrounded by her scent, wrapped up in a comfortable warmth.  

Not understanding where he is, still caught in that hazy in-between, he burrows deeper into the blankets, his hand reaching to his side, looking for soft skin and silky hair.

(Even though he has never had her in his bed, his heart still looks for her. Always her.)

But when he finds only the chill of the sheets, he shoots awake, the truth crashing down on him. His head aches, his joints hurt. All too familiar with the effects of over-indulging himself, he takes stock of where he is.

He’s in her room but he’s not quite certain how he had gotten here. The night is a blur of memories and demons, of drink and his attempt at numbness. But, beneath it all, he can still feel the shadow of her kiss, the touch of her hand, her voice in his ear.  

It’s strange that she still smells the way she used to. Even after all the ways in which the darkness had marked her, she still smells like herself, something faintly floral with a hint of spice. He can’t quite place it and he feels a pang in his chest when he realises that he might not ever be able to hold her close enough to try.  

Pushing the covers off, he gets out of bed, stepping gingerly on the cool floor, every movement bringing a fresh stab of the dull pain in his head. He wanders outside, still bleary-eyed and aching and begins to look for her. Last night, he had known that there was no guarantee that he would ever leave her room once he had entered it. Even then, his heart could not resist seeking out hers.

The tightness in his chest, the pull in his belly slowly returns as he remembers where they stand. Chasing a story. A man who may or may not exist who may or may not have an answer that may or may not work.  

He makes it only a few steps into the hall when he collides with a sprinting Prince Charming.

“Watch it, mate.”

His voice is gruff as he steadies the man with his hand and hook on his shoulders.

“I think we found him.”  

* * *

(They find her asleep in Killian’s room, lying in the chair that he had occupied the night before, her hand loosely wrapped around the bottle of rum that he had left behind.)

* * *

The man talks in riddles and Emma is this close to snapping his neck just so he will stop.

Merlin had turned out to not be the wizened old man that she had been expecting but this fairly young fellow who has a penchant for hearing himself speak it looks like. He’s been going on and on for what feels like hours now, never staying long enough on one subject and never answering the question directed at him. He hasn’t noticed her yet, choosing to talk to Snow instead, telling her now about the many advantages of using sage in the home.

The rest of them gather around the man they had found herding sheep in a large field. Henry, whom they had had fetched from the Queen’s castle the day before. Regina. David. Snow. And Killian who keeps darting looks back at her, his fist clenched tight at his side, his jaw stiff.

The darkness grows stronger and stronger within her and she knows that she is losing this fight. But, that fact doesn’t seem to scare her anymore. She has begun to embrace it. She would finally be free of this constant push and pull. She would finally be able to allow herself to sleep at night. She would no longer have to be afraid of hurting anyone because they would stop mattering to her.

And now that she has seen who this fabled Merlin is— nothing but a mumbling mad man— she is convinced that the darkness has won.

Even her patient mother looks about ready to impale him on an arrow and the thought makes her chuckle. Merlin looks up at the sound, his eyes finally catching at hers and she is not prepared for what happens next.

There is a storm in them, purple and black and blue. His eyes peer into the very core of her where the darkness has settled and taken root, where it isolates, magnifies and distorts her feelings, her wants, her urges.

He looks into her and it is difficult to look back.

Snow says something and just like that the storm is gone and all that is left is the young man who likes to talk too much. He finally seems to hear her question, taking the dagger from Killian. Emma feels the change of hands. All this time, the dagger, the only way to control  _her_  had lain in the hands of the man she loves and it had felt like a touch on her shoulder, a hand to guide her. But as soon as Merlin touches it, it feels as if he is grabbing hold of her throat, choking her with his grip. Her magic flares in panic as her vision starts to darken at the edges, her hands coming up automatically in a defensive position.

“What are you doing to her? Stop!”

Killian lunges at the man but the storm is back in his eyes and he vanishes, leaving a cloud of white behind him.

He comes up to her right and speaks to them all. She can’t make out much but she understands that she will need to die for the darkness to be destroyed once and for all. ( _With the vessel, dies the taint._ ) As soon as she becomes aware of this fact, light bursts from her fingertips, the darkness, the magic it controls revolts at the thought of being destroyed. She tries to steer the force away from her family but it is as though she has lost all command over her body. The darkness takes over completely, savage and brutal in its rage.

She watches as though from the outside, paralysed as the magic shoots directly towards Henry. A scream is stuck in her throat as she tries to move away but to no avail. She watches as Killian reaches for Henry, his arm outstretched as he pushes her son out of the range of the light hurtling towards them. She watches as Henry falls sideways into David’s arms. She watches as the beam hits Killian square in the chest instead.

It is the last thing she remembers before the screaming begins.

* * *

It hits him with a force that has him falling, a burst of pain beginning in his chest and slowly spreading through his body. The magic takes hold of his heart and squeezes, unrelenting in its assault. He cries out in pain but in spite of the fire burning through his blood, he tries to get up on his elbows so he can see her. The magic keeps its attack alive, his pain only growing as he watches her wide, frightened eyes. She is trying, he knows, to fight this. He can see it in the stiffness of her body as she tries to wrench back control, the way she is trying to close her extended fingers into a fist.

His heart feels another sharp squeeze that has him crying out. The rest of them still stand a ways away, avoiding the constant beam that is slowly spreading as Emma continues to lose control.

Perhaps this is how he dies.

His only regret is that he never got to tell her he—  

It stops.

Just like that, the pain is gone.

But, when he looks up to see, so is she.

* * *

It ends where had begun.

She lands on her knees on a street in Storybrooke; her hands clapped over her ears, breathing harshly as she tries to stop the tears rapidly slipping down her face, the sobs wracking her body.

The last thing she remembers is refusing to accept the fact that he was going to die. She remembers chanting  _No. No. No._  in her mind. She remembers pushing the magic away with all the will she had left in her. She remembers thinking,  _please, just take me instead._

And then, things had changed rapidly.

It had felt like someone was cleaving a part of her soul away from her, like they were pulling at the edges and ripping her in half. Her hands clawing at her chest as her mouth had opened to scream, to howl out in pain but nothing coming out. But just as soon as the intense pain had begun, it had ended. And the second that it had, all her emotions had come back.

Every feeling, every sob, every scream of frustration, every bit of stomach churning panic, of fear coming back all at once. Everything the darkness had buried, returning and demanding to be felt.

She lets it wash over her.

She lets herself cry.

* * *

The dagger shatters in the wizard’s hands.

As soon as she had disappeared, a trail of thick, black smoke had started flowing into the dagger in Merlin’s hands. It had shaken and grown and then finally shattered, the smoke dissipating in the air.

Killian stumbles to his feet, still feeling the effects of the magic he walks towards the man who is staring stunned, at his empty hands. He has him by the throat in the next second.

“Where did she go? I swear to all the gods wizard, if anything has happened to her, I will  _destroy_  you.“

He hears the chill in his own voice and he knows beyond a doubt that he will have no qualms killing this man.

“I— She should have—“ he clears his throat, seeming to gather himself and continues, “She should be fine. Returned to the place where the darkness had first taken her.”

Killian releases him roughly, watching as the man stumbles backwards slightly.

“How?“

The one word comes from David, who stands with his fists clenched. The only reason he has not jumped at Merlin yet is because Regina has a hand on one shoulder and Snow has her hand on the other, restraining him.

“She was willing to sacrifice herself to save him,” he gestures at Killian, “and that was so against everything the darkness stood for, everything that it had tried to corrupt her heart with, it just— ”

“We need to get back to Storybrooke,  _now.“_

It is Henry who speaks, his voice urgent, hopeful in a way that he hasn’t seen since this had begun.

“Let me open a door for you. It is the least I can do.”

* * *

When she finally gets on her feet, the first thing she sees is him. He is panting; his breaths harsh and shallow, forming clouds in the cold air as he runs. He comes to a stop a few feet directly in front of her. The pain still throbs in her. All of the emotion that had been trapped inside flowing out all at once had left an imprint. Her eyes still burn from the tears and she wonders how she can cry any more than she already has. But the sight of him, standing across from her on the slick streets of Storybrooke, the light of a street lamp giving him a glow, his shadow stretching behind him; the sight of his eyes, shining with tears brings forth even more of her own.

They don’t move.

She is frozen as she continues looking at him, her tears slipping down her chin. His fist is clenched at his side and his jaw twitches as he tries to rein himself in. She can see the effort in his body as he tries to keep himself from running at her. It hits her then that he isn’t sure if she wants him to come closer and the thought is like a twist to the jagged knife already plunged into her.

She remembers another day, it seems like a lifetime ago but the memory of it is burned into her brain. The way she had resisted when he had touched her, the way she had pushed him away. But now, now—  

“So, are you just going to stand there?“

Her face breaks into a tiny, watery smile, her voice hoarse from her sobs and she isn’t even sure if he’s heard her until suddenly he’s moving and just like that, she’s in his arms.

* * *

He doesn’t stop kissing her. Her forehead, her temple, her jaw, her neck. He holds her as close as he can, arms in a vice grip around her waist but she doesn’t seem to mind, clinging just as hard with her arms around his neck. The rain has soaked his jacket and a fine mist coats the world around them but all he feels is the heat of her, solid and real and finally in his arms.

He pulls back to look at her. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her hair wild. She looks like she’s been through a war and he’s sure he doesn’t look much better but there is a smile on her face and the spark, that had been missing for far too long, back in her eyes. She lets out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh and raises her hand to stroke the scar on his cheek. The emotion that wells up in his throat then is something he can’t seem to control and it sweeps over him like a wave.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

For every time he didn’t get to say it after the darkness. For every time he had whispered it in his mind when she had been with him. For every time he had thought it when he looked at her.

He tells her now.

Pulling her back into his embrace, he kisses every bit of skin he can find, pressing his love into her very bones so she will never forget.

* * *

Henry crashes into her while she is still in Killian’s arms.

She lets go of him for a second to hold her son, to kiss his hair, to apologise. She whispers quiet words of reassurance into his ears as he holds her tight. Her little boy whose tiny arms used to fit around her waist, now tall enough to tuck his head onto her shoulder. She strokes his hair and tells him it’s okay, that they had saved her.

Killian’s arm stays around her the entire time and when he moves to pull away, she reaches out and grabs his hand, unwilling to let him go any further.

Her parents are next, hugging her one by one. David’s hand in her hair, Snow’s kiss at her temple.

She’s home. She’s safe.

* * *

She doesn’t let go of Killian until they reach her room in the loft.

It has been a night of quiet celebration. They have hugged and cried and talked until the effects of the past few weeks had caught up with them. Everyone slowly falling away to go to bed.  

Henry and her parents bid her goodnight and she climbs the steps to her room, her bed. Killian follows, his hand secure in hers, as though he has always been here, always doing this with her. He had been quiet for the most part; occasionally squeezing her hand when she had laughed, content to just stare at her.

But, as soon as the door closes behind them, she is in his arms, his lips pressed against hers. Her hands cup his face as she kisses back, letting out a broken sob as the tears suddenly return. Her fingers slowly reach back into his hair, his hand at her waist pulling her even closer. His lips are hot and soft and everything she had imagined in those days without him and she cannot stop herself from going in again and again. When they finally pull apart, they are breathing hard, their lips still brushing against one another as they speak.

His eyes are still closed, his forehead now pressed against hers.

“Gods, I missed you.”

She laughs at that, a giggle just bubbling out of nowhere and he grins back, his eyes opening. They look just as red-rimmed from tears as hers probably do but they shine with so much joy, so much love.

“I love you.“

“I love you too, darling.”

(She all but collapses onto her bed after that and falls asleep almost immediately.)

(And tucked into his arms that night, she sleeps better than she has ever before.)


End file.
